Be Still in Wind and Rain
by MusketeerAdventure
Summary: Summary: Exciting accounts of mystery, heroism, and chivalry guide d'Artagnan through a dark and stormy night towards a sense of belonging. This is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires June/July challenge with the theme of, "It was a dark and stormy night."


Be Still in Wind and Rain

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Exciting accounts of mystery, heroism, and chivalry guide d'Artagnan through a dark and stormy night towards a sense of belonging. This is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires June/July challenge with the theme of, "It was a dark and stormy night."

* * *

"Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes." – Alexandre Dumas

* * *

Over the past few hours or so, d'Artagnan had taken to biting his lip, pressing his hands together in agitation and observing the sky for signs of bad weather. It took every ounce of persuasion he could muster to get him to sit down next to the fire. He worried for d'Artagnan; understood his unease and wanted to help.

Thunder rumbled some miles away; d'Artagnan flinched, so Porthos took that as his cue and began to speak in earnest. "It was a dark and stormy night", he began conspiratorially – leaning in to garner all of his attention. His voice purposely low, drifted beneath the breeze – his intent … to redirect the audience of one.

Aramis chuckled with humor and bowed his head to hide his disbelief. As the tale continued on into heights of incredulity he could not help but to look up and study the darkening sky as if beseeching God to end this torture and make the man stop. He had heard this particular tale from the big man before and wondered whimsically how d'Artagnan could even believe such hyperbole.

Had he not tired of hearing such blatant exaggerations of the truth? Obviously Porthos had not tired of the telling. But then, unlike d'Artagnan, he was not nineteen and newly in the company of the King's Musketeers. Whose wonder and admiration of all things musketeer, exuded from every pore in his body.

Sighing deeply he turned his attention away from the heavens to observe d'Artagnan seated close to the flames … still, attentive – his face awash with awe and concentration as Porthos rendered his impressive recitation. On this journey back to Paris, he had noticed d'Artagnan's growing restlessness, watched it emerge just as grey clouds appeared out on the horizon.

Porthos' voice seemed a calming influence, and he could not help but smile. These stories, now a mainstay on journey's such as this seemed to keep d'Artagnan grounded. Yet again, the young man absorbed with reverence another of these embellished stories of their more notorious missions, now transformed into the stuff of legends.

Inseparables, they were called in these stories, and Porthos took full advantage of the title. A moniker given to them by a frustrated Captain and latched on to by their peers – who saw them as the embodiment of their motto – all for one and one for all.

If it wasn't a tale of fighting off an enemy of hundreds, or outwitting the Cardinal's proficiency with mind games cloaked in conspiracy or saving a damsel in distress … it was like this one – a mystery hidden in desolate castles that only they could solve.

Aramis had to admit that Porthos was in his element when telling such tales. Arms flailing, use of voice inflections – he even took advantage of the weather, incorporating the camp fire which took on a surreal glow of unknown origins. Meanwhile the sun hid her rays behind dark clouds and tree limbs rustled to and fro, unable to fight against the stiffening breeze. The scene was set magnificently.

Moisture cooled his brow, so he could tell that a storm was approaching – playing right into Porthos' narrative.

Throwing in the pit a wayward stick of wood Aramis sat heavily next to his young friend and bumped his shoulder. But it had not the desired effect of distracting him. Instead the boy scooted over to give him more room as he continued to hang on every word.

d'Artagnan ate up these stories as if he were starving. And perhaps he was … starving; starving for adventure, mysteries, and romance – the stuff of fairy tales.

But Aramis didn't see the musketeer life this way. Being a musketeer was no fairy tale, there was no glamour and no reward – other than the respect of their peers; the respect of Captain Treville and the knowledge that they stood between any harm that might endanger their King and France. Money was no incentive; adventure was no incentive … not even love.

It was their devotion to one another – brotherhood that held them together.

Poking the fire, Aramis was lifted from his reverie as Porthos concluded his tale. His voice an ominous baritone ending on a questioning note. It was all he could do to keep from laughing.

Over the crackling fire, d'Artagnan asked with some suspicion in his voice, "And did you capture the murderer?"

Smiling, Porthos leaned in and considered the query, "What do you mean?"

"Well, the Countess was alone; no one had entered or left the room. The door was locked. But obviously she was murdered. Did you find who did it?"

Porthos laughed softly as the wind picked up a notch to seize bright embers and swirl them above the flames. "No, it was decided by the magistrate not to be murder."

d'Argagnan thought on this, his mind now absent of worrisome thunder and raging storms, but instead scrambled to find a more plausible conclusion to this tale. "Then why was the lute jammed down her throat?"

Porthos laughed again, now from his belly just as distant thunder traveled and rumbled through the trees. "You think on that lad", he said – eyes twinkling, "and let me know what you come up with."

Stealthily moving forward from the tree line, Athos gazed skyward. "We need to break camp and find shelter", he announced. "A fierce storm is coming." Swiping fat, intermittent rain drops from his face, he commanded, "d'Artagnan, go and retrieve the horses."

Nervously scrutinizing the sky, d'Artagnan swiftly stood to his feet and took off in a rush toward the tethered horses. Flashbacks of failure, death and grief assailed him as raindrops splattered around him. His shoulders slumped from the weight of harsh memories; but then he imagined the sinister castle also berated by a storm and the mystery of the Countess took hold of his imagination.

Once d'Artagnan reached the horses, and was out of earshot, Aramis commented, "You shouldn't fill his head with such stories Porthos." Throwing dirt on the fire he persisted, "I certainly don't remember the stories you tell him quiet the way you describe them … a dark and stormy night … really?"

Hand splayed over his heart, Porthos smiled widely and countered, "What do you mean?"

"Countess' eating lutes; fighting off hordes of men with only my sword – with never a scratch received", Athos began dryly.

"It's never too cold, or too hot; the journeys are never long or tiresome, we never lose a fight and skirt danger at every turn; women swooning at my feet – unable to resist my charms", Aramis continued.

"And you … one man with the strength of ten – overpowering assailants with your bare hands", Athos finished.

"All of it true, and you can't deny it", Porthos bellowed as d'Artagnan emerged, pulling their mounts through the brush, his mind now occupied with Countess', locked doors and lutes.

Mounting up, he repeated his sentiments again, this time soberly to himself, "All true." And as they rode away in silence, the rain became a steady force. Thunder roared which caused the ground to tremble and lightening lit up the sky. Thankfully d'Artagnan's thoughts were no longer centered on his sense of guilt, but with other things, Porthos mused, and this was good.

* * *

The inn could not come into view soon enough.

Hair plastered to the sides of his face, clothes drenched; his cloak heavy about his shoulders – d'Artagnan was eager to escape the now torrential rain which seeped down his back beneath his collar and uncomfortably poured into his boots.

This trek of theirs reminded him much of the many tales Porthos shared with him – all beginning with … it was a dark and stormy night. Any minute he thought ruffians might jump out from behind the trees, out onto the road and engage them in battle.

Athos would leap from his horse and skewer them all in a balletic flourish; Porthos would threaten with a glare, cross his arms and laugh as they tucked tail and ran away in fear. Aramis would calmly hold his musket within his arms like a new born babe and then pick them off one by one. And he would…..

But in his imaginings, just as he reached to pull on the hilt of his sword, Athos called out, "Finally, we are here", and dismounted before the open door of the inn – light spilling out into the night, letting them know dryness and warmth awaited within.

Blinking away such visions d'Artagnan knew what was expected, and without direction hopped down from his mount – boots squelching in the mud and assisted the stable master with escorting the horses to the nearby stables.

Adventures another day, he consoled himself and trudged through the rain as the wind increased and pushed against his body.

* * *

When at last the horses were fed, brushed down and made comfortable, d'Artagnan – wet and miserable could not wait to leave the stables. The smell of horseflesh, hay and earthy rain conjured up bad memories and heartache. He would be glad to leave it behind for the night.

Wishing not to relive that volatile day he lost everything, he bid the stable master goodnight; determined his lodgings from the innkeeper and wearily entered his room desiring only to lie down and rest; to erase the visions of the past and find peace in sleep.

Maybe in the morning, the storm would have passed, the sun would be shining, and he could leave the past where it belonged.

Entering the room he saw right away that the three musketeers had commandeered the bed and together lay side by side already asleep it seemed. Bread, cheese and wine were displayed on the only table and though his stomach growled with hunger, he passed it by to stand before the blanket set neatly out before the fireplace; a pillow thrown down with good measure.

His accommodations he assumed and without preamble dragged himself before the fire. Tired to the bone, clothes still wet and heavy, he removed his weapons belt and lay down with a sigh of relief.

And as his head landed on the pillow, he felt the pull of sleep drag him down and vaguely sensed a presence. Opening his eyes he was surprised to see Porthos who helped to remove his cloak; and then his muddy boots. A warm blanket covered his shivering form, along with a comforting hand placed atop his head. He thought then of his father and wanted to weep; but instead murmured a soft "Thank you."

Porthos' whisper of "Be still" had him nodding with gratitude; indebted he was for his kindness. Closing his eyes, d'Artagnan snuggled deep down into the warmth of his blanket; let go of his weariness and descended down into his dreams … where the three musketeers stood guard against his nightmares; weapons drawn – ready to save the day.

* * *

Shaken awake abruptly, d'Artagnan sat up, a bit confused … snatches of his dream attempting to pull him back. Instead of relenting, he rubbed at his arm, sure he could feel bruising erupt beneath his hand.

Cracking his eyes open he saw leaning into his personal space Porthos – a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Wake up lad", he urged; lifting him up by the collar from the floor to his feet. "Treachery is afoot."

Unsteady on his feet, d'Artagnan squinted through the haze of sleepiness and before him stood the three musketeers – barefoot; shirts untucked; hair askew – but armed; ready for a fight. Aramis held his muskets down by his sides; Porthos, his sword held tight and fists even tighter; and Athos stood relaxed and calm … sword hanging about his waist in its scabbard.

Reaching for his own weapon, he felt unprepared and anxious. His heart beat through his chest. Now wide awake, he wondered what was happening, but had no time to ask as Athos nodded and they all followed him out of the room; bare feet padding softly on wooden floors.

Below, d'Artagnan could hear over the howling wind and clattering shutters, a voice - harsh and stern commanding patrons, "This is us – telling you, to hand over your valuables."

Peering past Athos' shoulder as he called for a halt on the stairwell, he could make out the four thieves. One held out a sack for frightened patrons to drop coins, jewelry and small trinkets into. One waited by the door – nervously looking out into the yard, then back into the room. One stood by the window, and the one giving orders held onto the barmaid threatening her with a musket pointed at her side. She was terrified; trembling while tears ran continuously down her cheeks.

His anger at this injustice matched the battering storm raging outside the inn. Impulsively, d'Artagnan moved to engage – but felt Athos hand touch his arm and stood down – his eyes questioning their inaction. A woman was in danger, thieves were getting away with robbery – they had to do something. Were they not musketeers, the Inseparables no less … the stuff of legends?

Face grim, Athos looked to Aramis, who nodded and made his way back up the stairs; then to Porthos who moved passed them and slid quietly along the back wall and then Athos looked to him, but he did not understand the message and frowned.

Before he knew what was happening Athos had left his side and within a blink of an eye felled the thief with the sack – who now lay bloodied on the floor, then efficiently disarmed the man at the door; who now cried at his feet gripping his arm as blood seeped through his fingers. Porthos threw the man by the window head first into the bar – knocking him senseless; and out in the storm he could hear the reverberating sound of musket fire; men calling out in pain, then horses scurrying away – their hooves pounding on mud.

d'Artagnan felt overwhelmed. It was all such a blur of action; everything happening so fast – his feet rooted to the floor.

Patrons scurried for cover, under tables; behind chairs - the barmaid screamed, nudging d'Artagnan out of his inertia. Without thinking he surged forward and demanded over the chaos in the room for the hostage taker to "Let her go." The thief released her in defeat… his intent to run obvious. d'Artagnan dropped his sword, left his feet and tackled the man to the ground in quick order; then felled him with a single blow.

Breathing hard, standing to survey the room, he looked to his companions and smiled. Porthos told it true.

* * *

Sitting now before the fire d'Artagnan felt content.

The thieves were properly contained in the stables watched over by the local magistrates. Thankful patrons recovered their precious items and money. The barmaid promptly kissed Aramis on the cheek in gratitude, even though he was the one to have saved her life.

The dark and stormy night had ended well; and now the sun was rising.

As d'Artagnan listened to Porthos' rendering of the night's events he felt pleased and proud that now his name was a part of this new tale of adventure. One he would never forget. Laughing heartily alongside Aramis' incredulity and Athos' raised eyebrow of skepticism, it seemed a rainbow had appeared after a hard storm.

And the best part of the story? Porthos' rendition as to how he leapt several feet from a standing position, to literally fly across the room; his arms open like the wings of an eagle, taking flight.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Please leave a review to let me know what you think. This is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires June/July challenge with the theme of, "It was a dark and stormy night." If you would like to participate, go to the Fete des Mousquetaires Forum page and see how to enter.

The story of the Countess and the lute told by Porthos to d'Artagnan is based on a poem by Frank Hayes titled 'Dark and Stormy Night'.


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